Marauding In The Night
by Coins In A Jar
Summary: "Traitor", "coward," Peter has heard it all. He has yet to speak, however. An exclusive look into the strangely-lived life of the least of the Marauders.


Thank you for clicking, I hope you enjoy my fic! This is a re-imagining the character Peter Pettigrew from the inside, and of the line between anxiety, self-interest and cowardice. I look forward to hearing your thoughts, aka Reviews appreciated! :)

Housekeeping stuff: To be published weekly, prioritising deadline over length or being very polished. / Trigger warning: abusive family dynamics (no physical abuse, but emotional abuse for sure), mild swearing. / Not a "he had a terrible childhood thus he should be forgiven" story. That would be boring. / Fic is not entirely canon-compliant eg: Pettigrew is a half-blood, but his father is a wizard and his mother a Muggle, as opposed to his mother being a witch in canon.

* * *

This is the first day of the rest of Peter's life. His father tramps down the stairs to the kitchen table, and swipes a piece of bacon off his plate. Peter says nothing and continues eating, a little faster.

"So, off soon I expect? Fancy Hogwarts accepting you, you're lucky they took a shine to you."

Seeing no response, Arnold Pettigrew gently levitates the orange juice carton over and takes a swig. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and squints.

"Don't be getting any ideas now, boy. Any hint of bad grades and we are bringing you straight home. No point paying for someone who can't learn."

Peter takes a deep breath before swallowing. "I won't let you down, dad."

Arnold laughs and leans back against the counter. "You sure won't, boy. Not if you want to come back here," he grins.

Peter swallows again and puts his fork down. Today of all days. What has he done to be insulted before his first day at a prestigious new school? He looks over to his mother, who is pouring boiling water from the kettle over some instant coffee. She doesn't look back.

His stomach churns bitterly. Peter hates her.

His father straightens abruptly: "Well, let's get a move on, this train isn't going to catch itself." He strides off to the car happily and his mother scrambles, snatching Peter's plate while he is scraping more omelette on his fork. He glares at her and her hands shake. She shakes her head pleadingly.

With a sigh, Peter throws his fork down on the table and goes to fetch his suitcase. What a miserable start to the rest of his life.

* * *

On the train, Peter hitches his suitcase down the narrow corridor painfully, passing each busy compartment with a heavy heart. The other kids all had friends already, and he was never going to get anyone to like him while moping. Better to find an empty compartment and try again at dinner.

Boarding schools were notoriously strict about talking though, maybe he'd have better luck in his dormitory. Here's hoping the other boys wouldn't turn away when he spoke, that had hurt enough in primary school.

"Are you going in there?"

Peter drags himself out of his train of thought. A tall, bespectacled menace with messy black hair stares down at him.

James Potter shifts from one foot to the other then booms: "You're in my way," then hastily ruffles his hair. "I mean, I'm looking for a compartment," he looks about. "Any luck?"

Peter gulps, but he isn't about to let this opportunity pass. "Yeah, there's one just a little way back. I was checking to see if my friends had settled elsewhere." This is no time to look like a loser. "Want to join us," he generously offers.

James puffs up faintly like a cat just considering becoming annoyed, "Sure, my friends are somewhere that way anyway. I mean, they will be. I mean, let's go," and he strides past Peter, cheeks slightly red and knocking him aside a little. Peter frowns and follows on, hoping there actually is a compartment left or that he can bluff his way into one.

As James barrels ahead Peter calls out gladly: "Over here, this one!" and marches into a conversation between two small girls, one with a red gingham ribbon in her hair. They turn and look intensely bothered and not at all cowed. "This is a private conversation butthead, move along," says Ribbonless. James arrives behind him. This is bad.

"Not anymore," and he sits down straight on a half-eaten sandwich. The girls explode in peals of laughter, and James, never able to resist a good merriment, joins in. His barking laugh resonates down the carriage and up all the way to the train driver. Peter turns red, and redder, and soon wishes he could slip between the cushion stitches and hide forever. He has failed so badly! James would never be his friend now, no way, even a loser like him would not want stupid Peter and his edible seat bottoms. He springs up and makes for the toilets, his eyes suspiciously shiny. James grabs his arm and pulls him down on the other bench. "Now that was hilarious, sit down. This morning I packed a sausage inside my glasses case and my parents made fun of me all the way to Kings Cross," he chuckles.

The girls decide they are an alright sort. "I'm Amy," said Ribbonless, "and this is Rose. You can stay if you don't talk too much." She smiles in a maternal sort of way and James and Peter, exchanging slightly embarrassed glances, start laughing all over again.

* * *

After James' hour-long rhapsody on the virtues of Hogwarts' house system, it is with relief that Peter rushes over to the Gryffindor table and plonks himself down on the bench. A boy with a red and gold tie extends a hand: "Heya Peter, how do you do? I'm Edward Williams."

Shaking Edward's hand, Peter widens his eyes at the large empty dishes in the centre of the table. "How do you do, Edward. Are we serving ourselves then?"

"Oh yes, in a place this big it'd be impossible otherwise," smiles Edward, "No-one would get to eat hot food otherwise, even with the elves helping."

Peter's eyes bulge, but before he can ask more questions James sits next to him and introduces himself, quickly getting down to the serious business of establishing whether this new acquaintance cares about Quidditch.

Already bored, Peter admires the live ceiling and looks for Cassiopeia in between two rounds of "No, the Quaffle is the big ball" and "Seriously, don't you play?". His attention wanders down to the other students. A tall, lordly kid in the dead centre of the long table is sitting quietly, ignoring all the chatter around him and not making friends. Professor McGonagall had called him Sirius Black. He had marched imperially up to the Sorting hat, only to walk away white as a sheet and trembling. Since then, he hadn't addressed anyone or anything, and he wouldn't for the rest of the evening.

He nudges James, "What's with him?"

"Snake wasn't as snakey as advertised. All the Blacks go to Slytherin," replied James between two forkfuls of sprouts. "His parents are going to be spitting mad," Edward said, "I wouldn't want to hear that howler tomorrow." His new friend nods along, "I mean, what is it like to have your tradition dashed at the whim of a talking trilby?" They laugh.

Peter laughs along, and wonder at this new world he has just entered. No mistakes allowed here either. He must tread carefully.

A pretty girl leans towards them with flashing brown eyes and asks for the potatoes. He reaches over and as he is about to lift the dish James knocks his hand away, nearly spilling it. "Hey now, my tie is starched enough," jokes Edward. "You won't be needing any laundry done this week rate this is going," he addresses to the girl, but she looks unamused.

James has ignored Peter's confusion and passed the potatoes over, but they nearly spill again, this time into the jug of pumpkin juice. He growls and shoves them over: "Here, take them already."

"I beg your pardon."

The brown eyes look nearly dark.

"Just take them and eat! What is your problem," James looks utterly frustrated and his shoulders seem two sizes smaller. He won't make eye contact with anyone and Edward exchanges a glance with Peter.

"I'm sure they're delicious," says Edward, "do you want some, Peter?"

"There is no need to be so rude," insists the girl. She is nearly vibrating off her seat, and if her jaw gets any tenser she'll snap some teeth, considers Peter. He takes some potatoes and thinks fast, "Thank you, Edward. What did you say about house teams?"

"Right you are," says James mulishly, and turns over to the roasted chicken, far away from all this mess. She huffs and snatches the dish away, and turns to her new best friend to vent, serving potatoes like they individually ran over her science experiment just before completion.

Edward chatters away happily about Quidditch and house rules, previously instructed by two older brothers who love bragging and a mother who always wants to be prepared, and thus answered all his questions down to the method of entrance for first years. No mystery, no surprises, but that does not dull the delights of life for him. He is perpetually charmed by everything, first when it is described and the second time when he experiences it. He is a happy passenger in the juggernaut of his parents' ambitions, just happy to be included, always ready with a witticism.

Soon they are ushered away by their house prefects, up and up again on endless staircases until the red, welcoming common room of Gryffindor tower opens before them. Peter feels a pinch in his heart when James and Edward head off to their dormitory and he must go, alone, meet more boys and hope for more luck. Just once, he would like to keep the friends he makes.

He doesn't notice the heavy set of his mouth as he walks into his bedroom for the next seven years, and how his severe face puts off any of his dorm mates from asking his name until lights out. After a brief, discouraging answer, the other four boys decide he must like his own company better.

Thus started seven long, long years.


End file.
